


Home, Heart, Heritage

by estelraca



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Islamophobia, M/M, Religious Discussion, Yuri doesn't really care about anything other than ice skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: The first time Yuri met Otabek, he ended up fighting to defend him without even knowing his name.  When he figures it out years later, a late-night phone call ends up being one more stepping stone on the path to Yuri falling in love.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88
Collections: Holidays!!! on Ice (2019)





	Home, Heart, Heritage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lumeleo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeleo/gifts).



> I loved your prompts and hope that this does something like you were hoping for with Yuri figuring out that Otabek is Muslim. Have a wonderful season of the returning of the light!

_Home, Heart, Heritage_

The first time Yuri meets Otabek, Yuri is only ten years old.

The training camp has been going on for an interminable period of time, and Yuri is getting tired of it. Because he's getting tired of the whole thing, his temper has been shorter than usual. Because the other kids at the camp—kids who are _supposed_ to be as good as him but whom Yuri is certain he's better than—are idiots, his short temper has meant he's had some fights.

Because he's had some fights, Yakov decided not just to talk to _him_ , but to talk to his _grandfather_.

Which is why Yuri is now marching around the camp, handing out pirozhki and demanding that the other participants are going to get along with him now.

This probably isn't exactly what his grandfather had intended. When he handed Yuri the big box of food and told him that sometimes a shared meal could help someone make friends, he probably envisioned something... calmer.

Yuri finds it very hard to be calm right now, but at least the rest of the kids should realize from this that Yuri doesn't _want_ to fight. They can have a truce. They can all get through this and learn what they need to and go on with their lives.

"Here." Yuri shoves a pirozhki towards his next target—an older boy that Yakov had said needed to train with them. Not _much_ older, Yuri doesn't think, but in skating a few years is a huge difference. "This is from my grandfather. Let's all work hard to get through the rest of the camp."

The dark-haired boy—Yuri should probably know his name by now, but he doesn't really _care_ , and so it hasn't stuck—takes the pirozhki uncertainly. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome." Saying the stock phrase in English is less grating to him than having to say it in Russian, and he's somewhat glad the common language most skaters use isn't his. "Good luck with your training."

Yuri turns to leave, the box with the remaining pirozhki clutched to his chest. He will get this done, and then he can get back on the ice, maybe. _That's_ where he belongs.

"Ah—" The boy has come to his feet and is following Yuri. "Is there pork in this?"

Yuri narrows his eyes, thinking. "Yeah? I think so. I don't know."

"Then I have to apologize, but I can't accept it." The boy holds the pirozhki out, looking chagrined.

"Why?" Yuri eyes him suspiciously. "You allergic or something?"

The boy opens his mouth, closes it, and shrugs. "Or something."

Yuri scowls as he snatches the pirozhki back, taking a bite out of it himself. "If it's just you don't like pork, try one. It tastes really good."

The boy's face shifts, a difficult to read progression of expressions. "It's not that. It's—"

"It's that terrorists don't eat pork!" The boy who shouts the words might be American. Yuri should maybe pay more attention to his competition.

Maybe he will when they start feeling like competition.

Turning to the newcomer, Yuri scowls. "Shut the fuck up and stay out of conversations that don't concern you."

The new boy's expression wavers uncertainly. "I don't think we're supposed to say things like that here. And it was just a _joke_."

"No, it was stupid." Especially because Yuri doesn't even understand what the boy means by it.

"It's fine." The older boy, who apparently doesn't eat pork, holds up his hands. "I don't eat pork because I'm Muslim, that's all. I appreciate the thought, and I'm not looking to cause any trouble."

Shoving his hands in his pockets, the boy turns and walks away, leaving Yuri with the maybe-American annoying one.

Reaching his hand into his box, Yuri pulls out a pirozhki. "You want one?"

The boy's face lights out and he reaches out to grab it.

Yuri snatches it back, taking as big a bite as he can manage. "Too bad."

The encounter ends in one of the first actual physical fights of the camp, one that Yuri wins by dint of sheer flexibility and stubborn determination. Yuri forgets all about it within two weeks, too focused on his career and being the best skater he can be.

It's not until five years later that he wakes up from a sound sleep, wondering if maybe, possibly, he should have actually bothered to learn the name of the boy who wouldn't eat pork.

Never one to wait if he doesn't have to, Yuri pulls out his cell phone and calls Otabek. "Hey. At the camp where you said we met. There was this big kid who didn't eat pork. Was that you?"

There's the sound of a yawn on the other end of the phone. "Do you have any idea what time it is here?"

"No. I don't know what time it is _here_." Yuri squints at his phone, which is probably trying to tell him the time, but he really doesn't care. "Was that you?"

Otabek gives a soft laugh. "That was me."

"Oh." Yuri has no plan for where else this conversation is supposed to go, but he had wanted to _know_. And now he does. "Thanks. Good night."

This time Otabek's laugh is a little louder, but still kind, even fond. "Good night, Yuri. And next time you try to make friends with food, maybe be a little less... _aggressive_ about it?"

"I don't intend to try to make friends. Or to share my grandfather's food." Yuri pauses. "And, you know... me having a soldier's eyes and all that helped you remember me."

"It did indeed." There's the sound of another yawn. "Good night, Yuri."

"Night." Yuri hangs up before the call can become any more awkward.

It's only after he's buried his head in his pillow that he realizes he probably should have just texted Otabek, but he's glad to have had the opportunity to hear his friend's voice.

XXX

"What's this?" Yuri's head has plopped down next to a bit of tassel, and he tugs on it until a beautifully embroidered little rug comes out from under the hotel bed that he's lying beside.

"Ah." Otabek's expression freezes, his usually stoic features becoming virtually unreadable. "Sorry. That wasn't supposed to still be down there."

"Doesn't answer the question." Yuri dangles the object in front of his face, admiring the geometric patterns in the weave and the way they come together to form an arch on one side.

"It's... a prayer rug." Otabek holds out a hand, not demanding but clearly asking for the rug back.

"What's it for?" Yuri surrenders the rug without a protest, watching with curiosity as Otabek stows it away in one of his bags.

"Just what it sounds like. It's a rug for kneeling on when doing prayers." There's a faint note of tension to Otabek's words, something Yuri isn't used to hearing.

"Yeah?" Yuri rolls himself into a sitting position, adopting a cross-legged pose as he studies his friend. "I don't remember seeing it before."

"I usually have one with me, but I don't tend to take it out where other people can see it." Otabek sounds apologetic.

"Which you still haven't done, since this is _your_ room." Yuri leans against the bed, frowning as he studies his friend. "Why're you so nervous about it?"

Otabek lifts his shoulders in a shrug, expression schooled to impassivity. "I'm not. I'm just... I shouldn't have left it on the floor. It's supposed to stay clean in order to serve its purpose."

"Which is...?" Maybe Yuri should let this go, but he doesn't like the fact that it clearly makes Otabek nervous, and he's curious.

"It's..." Otabek draws a deep breath, lets it out in a sigh, and finally looks at Yuri directly. "We're supposed to stop and pray five times daily, while kneeling in a clean area and facing Mecca. The prayer rug means that clean area can travel with me."

Yuri blinks. "I... don't think I've ever seen you stop to pray."

Otabek shrugs. "I do, sometimes. If there isn't something important going on, a competition or something else..." He smiles, the expression draining some of the tension out of his shoulders. "But I'm not really a very good Muslim. I tend to forget a lot, or just have other matters I need to attend to. Still, I like to bring my rug, so if I'm in the right frame of mind and have a chance I can do it."

"I get it. I'm not a very good Christian, myself. Especially with the Orthodox church... if my grandfather didn't remind me of the high holy days I'd probably forget half of them." Yuri reaches out tentatively to touch the bag that Otabek stowed the rug in, remembering the soft feel of the tassels. "I think the rug's—" Yuri blanks on what compliments he can make about a _rug_ , especially in English, and ends up blurting out, "Pretty. And hey, maybe it's not how often we follow the rules but how much we care when we do that actually matters."

"I think there's a lot of wise people out there who would agree with that statement." Otabek smiles. "You ready to head out again?"

Yuri grins. "To the club?"

Otabek arches his eyebrows up. "You managed to age up that much since the last time you asked?"

Yuri pouts. "I could get an ID that said I had."

Giving his head a shake, Otabek pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand to help Yuri up. "How about somewhere with good music and _without_ a need to check identification."

Yuri ignores the hand, standing up on his own. He does allow his shoulder to bump Otabek's as he heads towards the door. "Sure, but if you're choosing the venue, I'm choosing the dinner."

Otabek opens his mouth to protest and then sighs. "Sure."

Yuri's smile is smug as he leads the way down to the street and waits impatiently by Otabek's bike. He makes a mental note to himself to look up more about Islam, because even if Otabek isn't very devout, Yuri figures it's a friend's responsibility to avoid putting one's foot in their mouth more often than necessary.

XXX

Yuri learns a lot in a short amount of time, and allows the facts to rattle around in his mind over the next two months when he doesn't see Otabek. He probably should have known some of it already—apparently there are a fair number of Muslims in Russia, and there's a lot of history that the religion impacts.

If it doesn't involve skating, Yuri usually doesn't have much time or patience with it. It's another one of his failings, Yakov would say. Yuri is good, but no one is _that_ good forever. If he manages to stay a professional skater for a decade, he'll be lucky. After that...

After that, he doesn't have a clear plan. He always figured he would teach other skaters, maybe do choreography, things like that. He could still stay in the insular world of professional skating even when he loses the ability to dominate the ice like he currently does.

Or... maybe not. Everything with Victor has made him think, usually at night or before he manages to get on the ice, before he has something physical to do to distract himself. And if he _doesn't_ stay in the professional skating world, well, he should probably make sure he doesn't sound like an idiot when he tries to fold himself back into the mundane world.

Eventually Yuri calls Otabek. He makes sure it will be a decent time for both of them, not too early, not too late.

He catches Otabek at a club, he thinks. Certainly there's the tinny sound of music in the background for a few seconds after Otabek says hello.

"Hi." Yuri had known he needed to call, to hear Otabek's voice, but now he doesn't know what he wants to _say_. "How's your program doing?"

"Just took second place." Otabek sounds proud, and rightly so.

"Sorry I couldn't be there." Yuri is practicing for his own competition, which is coming up far too soon and also not soon enough. Traveling now would have been foolish. "I'll watch the videos, make sure to send you tips."

"I'm curious to hear what you think." There's a bemused note to Otabek's voice.

"Yeah, well..." Yuri draws a quick breath. "Is your short program still a love letter to your homeland?"

There's silence on the other end of the phone, and Yuri wishes he could _see_ Otabek, see what subtle motions are happening around his lips and with his eyebrows that might give away what he's thinking. When he eventually speaks, Otabek's words are soft, almost hesitant. "It is. I love my homeland, and my people love me. It seems the least I can do."

"I like the music you selected. It fits. I've..." Yuri gives his head a shake, telling his tongue to just _speak_ , just say _words_ , and eventually they'll figure out what it is that they need to say to each other. "I've been doing some reading. About your home, and about your religion."

"And that's why you called me?" Otabek's voice is noticeably cooler.

"No. I just wanted to hear your voice." Which sounds super, _super_ stupid, something that Yuuri would say to Victor, and Yuri scowls at his own feet. "And just... it's all complicated, isn't it? Your history. Mine. The things our religious leaders say, and the things they've done."

"Complicated." Otabek repeats the word, and then says something either too low for Yuri to catch or in a different language. "That's a fair way to put it. History is complicated, and so are people."

"So are homes." Yuri pulls aside the curtain so that he can look out at the familiar bustling city. "So are friends."

"And we love them anyway." Otabek's tone has warmed again, his words friendly and inviting.

"Yeah. Perhaps even more because they're complicated." Yuri allows the curtain to fall again. "But, yeah, I wanted to talk to you, see how you did. Tell you I'll watch the videos when I get a chance, and maybe call you again?"

"Call me any time you want, for anything you want. I always like talking to you."

The words send a little shivering thrill up Yuri's spine, and he runs his tongue over his lips. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow." The word sounds like a promise coming from Otabek, and then the line goes dead.

Yuri immediately goes to his computer, trying to find as many videos from as many different angles as he can of Otabek's performance.

When he calls him tomorrow, he wants it to be as long a conversation as he can possibly manage.

XXX

Yuri kisses Otabek.

He doesn't have a good excuse to use. They're coming back from a nice dinner out with Phichit and some of the other skaters. Yuri is riding on the back of Otabek's motorcycle, a place he's found himself more and more comfortable over the months. The night is dark around them, but not _too_ dark, the yellow streetlights and blinking traffic lights providing strange, shifting illuminations.

When Otabek parks the bike, Yuri jumps off, stretching as he does so. Otabek disembarks with less fanfare, watching Yuri with a faint, sweet smile.

And Yuri leans up and kisses him.

It's a quick, clean kiss. Just a brief press of Yuri's lips to Otabek's, but it feels glorious. It feels like electricity running all the way through Yuri's body, from his lips to his feet, and he looks up at Otabek, anxious to see how he responds.

For a few seconds Otabek just stands there, helmet still dangling from one hand. Then he reaches up to touch his lips, and his eyes finally meet Yuri's. "Yuri, what..."

"I like you." The words are said with crisp, sharp certainty. "I think I have for a while. If you don't like me back, that's fine."

"I..." Otabek's eyes widen a bit, and his fingers tighten on his helmet.

Yuri tries to be patient. He tries to wait. But waiting isn't really what he does well, and when Otabek doesn't follow up with anything he finds himself speaking again. "Do you _not_ like me?"

"I like you just fine, and you're gorgeous, it's just..."

"Just what?" Yuri frowns. "You're not into guys?"

"No, I..." Otabek's hands move, the forgotten helmet twirling in a slow circle.

"Oh. Is it a religion thing?" Yuri scowls harder. "If that's it—"

"It's not a religion thing. There are plenty of queer Muslims out there. It's a—you're only seventeen, and—"

"If you say that I'm a kid, I'm going to punch you so hard—"

"You're not a _kid_ , but you _are_ younger than me, and I just want..." Otabek finally puts the helmet down. "I just want to make sure you're _certain_ of what you want. That you've thought things through. We're direct competitors, after all. And I don't want you to regret anything we do."

" _We_ haven't done anything." Yuri reaches up to grab Otabek's collar. " _I've_ kissed _you_. But if you wanted to kiss me back—"

Otabek bends down, and from the way he kisses it's very, very clear that he does.

When Otabek pulls back, his cheeks are flushed, and Yuri knows that his are the same way. He grabs hold of the edge of Otabek's jacket. "Up to one of our rooms?"

"You are an impossible little tiger." Otabek laughs. "But sure. Let's go up to our room and we can talk some more."

Talking and a little more kissing ends up being _all_ that they do, but it's still a good night, and Yuri falls asleep happy, pleased with what he's done and what the world has given him.

XXX

"You sure you want to do this?" Yuri stands outside the beautiful cathedral, shifting uncomfortably in his suit.

"You came with me to the mosque. The least I can do is accompany you." Otabek straightens. "And your grandfather."

Yuri turns to see his grandfather and mother approaching through the crowd. It always surprises him how much his mother seems to age between times that they see each other.

"Yuri." His mother stands studying him for a few moments before reaching out to pull him into an embrace. "More beautiful by the year, my boy." Then she turns to Otabek, who somehow looks at ease in his suit. "And this is your... friend?"

"My boyfriend." Yuri tries not to let his voice growl on the word.

"Your... boyfriend." His mother repeats the word uncertainly, looking to his grandfather.

His grandfather just smiles happily up at Otabek.

"Your... Muslim boyfriend." She whispers both words, clearly trying not to be overheard by anyone. "Otabek, yes? Are you certain you want to accompany us...?"

"I don't want to cause trouble." Otabek speaks slowly, glancing at Yuri while he does. "If you would prefer I not be here—"

"He's staying." Yuri links his arm through Otabek's. "Unless you want us both to go?"

"No, no." His mother gives her head a hasty shake. "I didn't mean... I'm glad I get to spend the holiday with both of you. Really, truly glad."

She reaches out to touch Yuri's arm, and he almost pulls away from her. Only Otabek tightening his hand around Yuri's elbow when he feels Yuri tense convinces him not to.

They follow his grandfather and mother into the church, and Otabek looks around with interest.

"Sorry about that." Yuri mutters out the words.

"Nothing to be sorry about. You didn't do anything. Didn't even lose your temper." Otabek smiles down at him. "And it's hardly the worst insult I've ever received from someone. It might just be that she's worried about you."

"Probably not." Yuri follows his mother and grandfather down one of the aisles and into a pew.

"But maybe yes." Otabek murmurs the words so that only Yuri can hear them. "She's just human. Just like the rest of us."

Yuri looks around at the beautifully painted images of Christ and the Holy Family and the saints, comparing it in his mind to the swirling, careful geometric patterns that had been inside the mosque.

His mother is just human, just the product of her home and history and heritage. Just like Yuri, and just like Otabek.

She turns to give his hand a squeeze, and mouths a silent _I'm sorry_ that earns a grudging nod from him.

Just like his home and his religion—just like _him—_ his mother can learn.

"You know I'll fight anyone who gives you a hard time. About anything, really, but especially about your religion." Yuri makes the comment in a quiet, offhand way.

"You know I don't need you to? That if I need to fight, I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself?" Otabek sounds more bemused than concerned.

"Yeah, but I'd still fight them anyway. I _like_ fighting. Born for it, really, with these soldier's eyes and all." Yuri turns those eyes to his boyfriend.

Otabek smiles, taking Yuri's hand and giving it a squeeze. "If I ever need a tiger, I'll make sure to call on you. But until I do, why don't we just enjoy the beauty around us?"

Yuri slouches back in the pew, deciding he can live with that if everyone else can.


End file.
